Death is the Pits

Death changes things.

When I was seven, I got kicked out of the foam pit in my gymnastics class. Gymnastics is a tough sport. I mean, you’re expected to stand on your head until all the blood rushes to your brain, flip cartwheels and hang from the horizontal bars until your hands give out and you fall on your ass. So as you can imagine, the foam pit was a nice reprieve.

The pit’s real purpose was to allow us to practice new moves without being scared. But of course – every once in a while – someone would lounge around in it, just a bit too long. You see, our “Pit Permit” was good for “Two minutes. Tops,” according to our instructor, Mr. C.

One day, I tumbled into the pit and was trying my damndest to get out, but it was like I was wading through tar. The foam blocks were nestling up, in between my legs and arms and I was having a hard time making my way to the edge. I could feel Mr. C’s eyes on me. And then, I heard a whistle blow, “Meghan, your two minutes are up. The pit is not a place to play. Get out! Now! I said now!”

I struggled through the foam, defending myself. But Mr. C told me I had purposefully taken advantage of the foam. I had cheated the system, thinking he wouldn’t notice if I would sit in the pit for an extra minute or two. And for this I would be punished. I would lose my pit privileges for the remainder of class and month, for that matter.

I got out of the pit and sat down on the mat, my head hung. Did I strategically plan to spend more time in the foam? Mr. C’s accusations really got me questioning my innocence. He was so convincing. Looking back, I can see how false confessions happen. Your mind totally fucks with you. The month ended and I was allowed back in the pit, but I passed. I was terrified I’d get stuck again, Mr. C would think I was lying and well, you know the rest of the story.

Years passed and I was kicked out of many more places, for good reasons: violin class, the school bus, a strip club and an airplane. But, it wasn’t until 10 months ago, when my uncle, G, passed away that I was, once again, wrongly accused of something and kicked out of a place I wildly adored: my family.

I moved to Arizona about 10 years ago and became incredibly close with my aunt, uncle and two cousins, S and B and their significant others. I was 1,500 miles away from my nuclear family and they took me in and treated me as if I were theirs. We did things families do: spent major holidays together, bought each other birthday gifts, cooked together, teased each other, fought with one another and defended one another.

I was over at one their homes nearly every weekend – eating dinner, boating, watching movies or just keeping my loneliness at bay. They were my people. But, at the same time, I respected my boundaries. I knew my place, well, I sort of knew my place, it was a fine line to walk. I was sort of like Cousin Oliver from The Brady Bunch.

Although G was not my blood – he was married to my mom’s sister – I loved him deeply. He was an amazing person. Bigger than my words can describe, but you can read more about him here. His passing was unexpected and devastating to everyone who knew him.

He’d been in ICU for a few days and I was in the waiting room, on the phone with my mom, when he coded. S was flying back from a business trip when it happened. B and my aunt were in his room with him. The rest of the events are sort of a blur, which I think is common in highly emotional situations.

Naturally, I told my mom G coded and she was already packing her clothes to fly out to Phoenix to offer her support. I’m not even sure who came out to the waiting room to tell me G had passed. I just remember going into his room, kissing his cold forehead, telling him I loved him and saying goodbye. I also remember feeling awkward, not knowing if I should be in there. Was this just a time and place for real family? I mean, he wasn’t my dad – only my uncle. And, S wasn’t there yet and didn’t know G had passed. Did I have a right to be there before she was?

S eventually arrived and it was about as awful as you can imagine. Not being there when your dad passes away has to feel terrible. We all said goodbye again, the chaplain came or maybe the chaplain came and then we all said goodbye. And then, I went home.

Leading up to the funeral, I spent every night at my aunt’s. I just wanted to be there. They had been married 45-years and had a lovely marriage, so I couldn’t imagine what she was going through. After the funeral, however, things got weird. I’d call and offer to help clean, pack, bring food, or just visit. And, each time I’d be told, “No.” So, I backed off because I understand that everyone grieves differently. But, months went by and I was the only person my family was avoiding. I had a gut feeling I said or did something offensive. I mean, I had gone from being over there nearly every weekend to not seeing them in four months.

I didn’t want to make the situation about me, but I wanted to fix whatever I had done. So, I asked. My aunt told me nothing. I had done nothing and why don’t I come to the country club for Thanksgiving dinner. Of course I would go.

This was where it was clear there was a problem. S wouldn’t talk to or look at me. On the brightside, she did refill my wine glass. I didn’t stick around to not be invited to Christmas. I flew to Dallas to be with my brother and shortly thereafter I found out what I had ‘done.’

Try as you might, secrets can’t be kept for long. Word spread through the family and I learned S was mad at me because she thought I told my dad G died and he told someone who told someone who told someone before S found out. I felt like I was right back in that foam pit. Had I told my dad? I didn’t remember calling him. I rarely talk to him in day-to-day life, why would I call him in such an emotionally charged situation? I knew I hadn’t even called my sister because she called to yell at me for not doing so. My seven-year-old self was questioning my innocence. I was driving myself nuts, and then it finally hit me to scan through my phone records, which determined I had, in fact, not called my dad.

But in the end, does it even matter? G is gone and everyone is hurting so much, why add to the pain? And then again, maybe S isn’t really mad about what she claims. Maybe she’s just mad and needs someone to be mad at. Maybe she needs more than two minutes in the pit and will venture out, in her own time.

Not Having an Emergency Contact is an Emergency

You know that means occasionally cutting me out of my panties, right?

I’ve had a few certifiable emergencies in my life, but none that required an official emergency contact, you know, like the kind you prepare for by filling out that “In Case of an Emergency” form. Of course, I’ve been presented with those forms, when accepting job offers, running races, and before being carted off into surgeries. But, I’ve never felt the need to fill one out. I figure shit will just take care of itself. I mean, no one is going to let a crisis go down without intervening, right? I’ve seen enough “What Would You Do?” to know that people are generally decent. Regardless, I’ve just never been one to prepare.

In my emergency situations, I used the resources available to me at the time – since I was ill prepared. Like the time I got lost on I-35 on my way home from visiting and out-of-town boyfriend. I had an inkling that I missed my exit and it was before iPhones, GPS, and all that jazz. Not that those devices would have helped me anyway. I’m uber directionally challenged and can barely read a map. So, I did what any desperate, single girl would do. I grabbed a notebook and pen out of the glove box of my silver LeBaron and scrawled, “WHICH WAY IS FORT DODGE?” and held it against the driver’s side window.

My sign caught the eye of the middle-aged man driving the taupe Ford Explorer in the neighboring lane. I couldn’t have been luckier. Clearly, this dude was responsible. He, his wife, and two kids were safely buckled in their seats, and he appeared to be traveling annoyingly below the speed limit. His eyes squinted at my sign, making the corners of his mouth turn up, revealing braces. Another indication this guy was on the right track in life. Only mature, sensible people care that their teeth are straight. I can’t be sure, but I also think I saw a smirk in his eyes. Either way, my unofficial emergency contact came through and let me know my inkling was spot on, by forcefully waiving his index finger in the opposite direction we were driving.  I mouthed an emphatic “thank you” before getting off at the next exit and turning around.

Then there was the time I had an “accident” in my panties at work and needed to be cut out of them. Okay, before you go judging, like you’ve never had one, or at least came close? Anyway, it was about 12 years ago and I was working at a prison, so let’s just say circumstances were not normal. It was a medium/maximum security prison; so fastened to my khakis was a belt that secured a radio, so I could call for help in case I got punched in the face, raped, or had an accident in my panties.

Anyway, back to my soiled undergarments. I was sick, but didn’t want to leave work. I had to co-facilitate one more group for the day and didn’t want to stick my co-leader by himself. I was sitting at my desk when the emergency occurred. Thankfully, my mom also worked at the prison – in the kitchen – so, naturally I called her on my radio, “Krein to Krein, 10-21 5432.” She called immediately and instructed me to report to the kitchen, where it all went down. The kitchen was approximately a football field’s length away from my office, so I waited until the inmates were locked down for afternoon count and waddled over.

Mom met me outside the entry into the kitchen and walked me into the staff restroom where she filled me in on the plan. Next, I slipped my khakis off my hips and around my ankles, leaving my belt and radio intact, and then Mom sliced off my dirty panties with an industrial kitchen scissors. We immediately tossed my underwear in the garbage shoot that exited directly into the dumpster, outside the facility. We couldn’t just toss them into the prison trash because the inmates scour it looking for goodies. And, you know, some of them have fetishes. Pretty sure I’d be into some crazy kink if I were locked up for 25 to life, too. Anyway, I finished my day and conducted group sans panties. As erotic as that sounds, it wasn’t – in the least. It was quite disturbing. But, looking back, what’s more disturbing is that I’m not even sure what happened to those scissors.

Of course, I’ve also experienced the lesser forms of emergencies, like diet emergencies, if you will. About six months ago, I went to Bikram Yoga for the first time, toting only a hand towel. After a quick burst of giggles, the instructor grabbed a huge, fluffy towel that was for sale at the front of the studio and graciously handed it to me.  I’m forever indebted to her – I think I’m still sweating from that class. And, about four months ago, I wore brand new cycling shoes to spinning class, and got stuck in the pedals. I had to get off the bike and leave my shoes in the pedals. Thankfully, an older guy on the bike next to me had an allen wrench on him and unscrewed my shoes.

So, you can kind of understand why I find those damn “In Case of an Emergency” forms annoying, time-consuming, and useless. As humiliating as my life can be, things seem to work out in the end. But, at the same time, I do like having the option of an emergency contact. Just like the gays like having the option to marry. Exactly, the same.

But, when it comes down to it, I’ve never not filled one out because I didn’t have someone to put down. I just didn’t want to go through the hassle. So, it tugged at my heart the other day when I was doing protocol paperwork with a client and asked her who she’d like to list for an emergency contact. She was quiet for a moment, dropped her eyes to the carpet, wrung her hands, and then softly confessed, “I don’t have anyone.” It almost felt like a desperate plea. So desperate that I wanted to list myself as her emergency contact, but of course, that would be unethical.

My mind raced. You don’t have anyone? No one? Not a single person in this godforsaken world to be there for you? Not a grandma, or aunt, or friend, or neighbor, or even a best friend’s neighbor’s uncle’s sister’s cousin? What a damn shame.

Everyone needs an emergency contact to be willingly to guide them back home or cut them out of their panties. Everyone.

Do My Shoes Stop You In Your Tracks?

It’s my understanding that having a soft spot for shoes means you’re either a woman or gay. So when a dude compliments my shoes, I get confused.  It’s a rarity and has only happened to me twice. So, I’m not sure if this means my shoes suck or what, but either way, it mind-fucks me. The first time it happened, I was on a first date and rocking some pretty sweet, white ballet flats. My date totally ogled my shoes more than my ta-tas, which I did not appreciate. I may have let it slide if his hand would have accidentally grazed my ass or something, but he seemed to be the shoe porn type. I labeled him gay and decided he would be way more fun at the mall than in my bed.

The second shoe incident occurred last weekend, at Trader Joe’s. Usually all I leave that store with is a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck, a container of egg white salad, and a hunk of dark chocolate. But, this time my basket was as full as Kim Kardashian’s bathing suit. I can’t help it, when I’m nervous, I fidget. And, I was nervous because some T.J.’s hottie was chatting me up – about my shoes – so I kept tossing food into my basket. If anyone needs six bags of Roasted Seaweed Snacks, let me know.

You can look..and touch!

I admit, I was sporting some pretty amazing pumped up kicks: a pair of neon blue and fluorescent pink Saucony’s.  Mr. T.J. took notice (really, how could you not spot them?) and wanted to know where I got them.  I gushed about the fabulous online site where I buy shoes and how Saucony is the only brand I’ll run in. I continued to babble on about races and shin splints as I chucked random shit into my basket. Then Mr. T.J. grilled me about cycling and asked me who I ride with and where. Naturally, I’m thinking: Here it comes. Here it comes. He’s finally going to ask for my number.

I was wrong. After 15 minutes of intimate shoe talk, we parted ways in the freezer aisle.

So, instead of shoes, I think my next online purchase will be a personalized t-shirt that reads: “I got hit on at Trader Joe’s and all I got was 6 bags of Roasted Seaweed Snacks and this lousy t-shirt!”

My New Year’s Resolution: I Will Not Kill Myself

I choose life.

I’ve never been one of those New Year’s Eve type of people. You know the kind: takes an inventory of her life, picks the five issues she spent the most time on in therapy as her resolutions, dishes them all to her girlfriends over a glass of wine, and then fails miserably at each and every one of them. Nope, I was the antithesis of this, revolting against this type of behavior. But as this year wraps up this week – for the first time – I actually want to give resolutions a whirl.

For starters: I will never, ever, take my health for granted. Yes, I was one of those people who recoiled when pregnant women announced, while rubbing their protruding bellies, “I just hope it’s healthy.”  On the inside, I was rolling my eyes, thinking: Liar, liar, pants on fire. Of course your little bundle of joy is gonna be healthy. You’re not holding a crack pipe between your fingers and I don’t see track marks on your arms from where you were shooting up heroin. Now tell us if you want a boy or girl, dammit.

Good health had always come naturally to me and pretty much all of my friends and family, so I just assumed everyone had it. You know, like the internet. And so when you have something that’s functional, you use it, for instance, your body. And moving my body was never an option. I had to move it – every day – no matter the mode. I realize now, my method falls under the addiction category. I mean, my life was structured around gym classes and counting calories. I ate fruits and vegetables and tossed in a piece of chicken every now and then. I stopped menstruating. I was not a delight to be around. Hell, I didn’t even want to be around myself. Clearly, that’s who I was running from. And it was last November when I was training for a half-marathon that I finally caught up to myself and took myself out.

I was only a few months into my training when I got injured. Initially, it felt like a pulled muscle in my right groin, no biggie. So I kept running, cycling and kickboxing. But, as the weeks and miles wore on, the pain intensified and spread. I mean, it seriously invaded my body and I was pissed off. Over a matter of weeks I had bilateral pain in my groin, hips and left low back. Since putting underwear on had become an ordeal, I went to see my family doctor, Dr. Levins. He recommended I drop out of the January race January and referred me to a sport’s specialist. If I didn’t want to have Dr. Levins’ babies, I would have told him to screw off. But because the pain was so severe and he’s such an amazing doctor, I listened.

So, began my ride on the merry-go-round of doctors. The sport’s specialist referred me to a rheumatologist, who referred me to my OBGYN, who referred me to an orthopedic surgeon, who referred me back to Dr. Levins. While they spun me around like a DJ spins music, I flew into the chiropractor, massage therapist, physical therapist and acupuncturist on my own. Of course, my body was being riddled with radiation through CT scans and X-rays. They eased up on me every once in a while and threw in a “harmless” MRI. Not sure how harmless those things are when they evoke serious claustrophobia and require copious amounts of Xanax beforehand. Either way, each test came back “fine”, with the exception of a small cyst on my right hip. No clear consensus on the nature of it, as some professionals deemed it meaningless and others reported it significant for a labral tear (cartilage surrounding the socket of ball-and-socket in the hip-joint).

I began stocking up on herbal homeopathic remedies. I was drinking concoctions that were as thick as swamp water and didn’t taste much better. Oh, and they didn’t work either. So, my sister, who’s name is followed with the letters, R.N. talked me into taking the painkillers I was prescribed. I was hesitant because my profession allows me to see the devastating effects of addiction. But, I was desperate. So, began my pill-popping journey. I didn’t even care for the Percocet or Vicodin. I mean, the stuff made me nauseous and shaky. The Ambien, on the other hand, was a treat. But, the drugs distracted me from the insurmountable pain. And, I would take any feeling over that. Enter: suicidal thoughts. I seriously had them. I wanted to die. I thought, if I have to live in this kind of pain and I can’t ever move my body like I used to, then I don’t want to live. There is no point. Everything I loved had been cruelly ripped out of my life, like a band-aid off an owie. I love the sunlight, yet, I never pulled the shades up in my condo anymore and each night I would lie on the floor and sob into a pillow. I would leave my doors unlocked and drive without a seatbelt. See, I’m a lot of things, but ballsy is not one of them. If I was gonna die, someone else was going to have to do it. And the only thing I thought about more than suicide was being fat.

Okay, I wasn’t really fat per say. But, I had tacked on about seven or eight pounds, so my pants were no longer button-able. For a brief stint, I boycotted underwear – I mean, they were just one more layer underneath my pants, making me fatter. And when I clasped my bra, back fat oozed out. My cheeks looked like I stuffed them with a handful of marshmallows. Being someone who was once obsessed with my body, this weight gain was nearly unbearable. But, I had been prohibited from exercise, so I ate to numb the ruthless physical and emotional pain. I stuffed my scale in the closet and did a lot of positive self-talk. As the months passed, and my belly protruded more and more, my mantra became, “I am healthy. I am healthy.” Yes, I recognize the resemblance to one of those annoying pregnant women. And the whole weight thing probably wouldn’t have been such a colossal deal, but I couldn’t afford new duds. I was drowning in medical bills – did I mention I had taken a trip to the ER? Thank God, I invested in a couple of pairs of leggings awhile back.

So, as I sit here in a pair of worn out leggings (and underwear) and my brother’s sweatshirt, I think back to when this whole journey started 14 months ago. Although I didn’t end up killing myself, part of me did die. Thank God. It was an agonizing, bittersweet death – but necessary. Sometimes we take things for granted in life so we’re poked, prodded and nudged until we get the hint that we need to make some changes. And sometimes we choose to be ignorant so we get pushed into a corner, slapped upside the head, kicked in the ass and have our legs pulled out from underneath us. I’m still working on finding balance, but resolve to wait for the next poke, prod or nudge with loving, open arms.